Interlude  A Lazy Afternoon
by Amberdreams
Summary: <html><head></head>Characters: Sam & Dean  Gen . Rating: PG-13  Words: c 900. Summary: Season 5 – Probably a wee while after Sam Interrupted.  Dean decides to take an unscheduled pit stop halfway up a Colorado mountain.  Go figure… Warnings: Nothing much happens…</html>


**Title: **Interlude - A Lazy Afternoon

**Author:** **amber1960**

**Characters:** Sam & Dean (Gen)  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13

**Words:** c 900  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Season 5 – Probably a wee while after _Sam Interrupted_. Dean decides to take an unscheduled pit stop halfway up a Colorado mountain. Go figure…

**Warnings:** Nothing much happens…

**Interlude - A Lazy Afternoon.**

_A dreamy day; and tranquilly I lie_

_At anchor from all storms of mental strain;_

_With absent vision, gazing at the sky…_

_**James Whitcomb Riley**_

It was the absence of noise that woke Sam.

He was so used to the soothing rumble of the Impala's engine, it was the unexpected silencing of it that brought him back from some deep dark dreaming sleep. He had no memory of the dream, but was left with the uncomfortable feeling that he should be grateful for that fact.

Still groggy with sleep, Sam looked around in puzzlement. There was nothing but empty countryside for miles around them, empty sky above; no discernable reason for the unscheduled stop.

"Wazzup, Dean? Where are we?"

Dean ignored the question, just flinging a grin, wide and bright and rare, as he cracked open the driver's door and slid out of the Impala's leather embrace with an easy long limbed grace that Sam felt he hadn't seen in a very long time. After a few seconds, Sam followed suit, taking a deep breath of the clean resin-scented mountain air as he exited the old Chevy.

Dean was standing on the very edge of a steep drop, arms stretched above his head with hands clasped, like a high-board diver about to spring into action. For a dreadful moment, Sam thought his brother was going to jump, that Dean had finally had enough of Michael and the heavenly host's plans for the Winchesters and was ready to end it all. His heart lurched painfully in his chest before Dean turned round, face still lit by a smile as wide as the sky. Sam found his heart lurching again then, for an entirely different reason. Pain and joy mingled in a strangely intoxicating mixture in his chest.

"Look at that view," Dean gestured expansively with one arm, a sweeping gesture that gathered in the whole horizon. Colorado was spread out in a patchwork of dark ever-green covered hills and sandy plains to the east. Below them, a large bird of prey (maybe an eagle? Sam wasn't sure…) wheeled lazily on a thermal.

"Above us only sky, Sammy. Above us only sky."

Sam covered his feelings, burying, burying, digging deep and piling on the earth, following Dean's advice – because, you know, that strategy of deflection and ignoring all the shit worked so well for the elder Winchester, didn't it? Dean was the epitome of a balancing act, always just teetering on the edge.

"What," Sam scoffed, "You're quoting Lennon now? You'll be singing the _Hills are Alive_ in a minute!"

Dean just laughed. A for real, from the gut, honest-to-God laugh. Something deep inside Sam melted a little at the sound.

"Yeah Sammy, just look out for those nuns and the Nazis while you are at it. Now go get the cooler out of the trunk, bitch. Time for a cold one."

Sam's finely-honed reflexes automatically snatched the quickly flung keys out of the air. Just as involuntarily his little brother programming kicked in as he muttered "Jerk!" and deployed bitch-face number 14 (one of the milder versions that said, _you're not the boss of me, but a beer's a damn good idea so I'll run with it_…).

When he returned from the car with the cooler-box full of beers, Dean was sitting with his legs dangling over the edge of a rocky ledge, swinging them in the air like a ten year old kid. Dean didn't look round as Sam plonked himself down, deliberately bumping shoulders as he joined him on his precarious perch. Sam just wanted to make contact, to feel that connection with his brother that had been lost for what felt like too long.

"For someone who hates to fly, you don't have much of a problem with heights, do you?" Sam grumbled as he cracked the top of one of the bottles and handed it to Dean. He was ridiculously pleased when Dean's shoulder gently nudged him back as he grabbed his beer and took a long swig. Although the beer was delightfully chilled, all Sam could feel was the warm glow deep in his core as the cool amber liquid slid smooth down his throat.

They sat in silence, each of them leaning, ever-so slightly, on each other, and Sam could feel the tension slowly bleeding out of him.

Lucifer and Michael might still be gunning for their respective asses, the Apocalypse might be looming and the Four Horsemen might be loose, but right now, sitting on the folded arms of the Sleeping Ute side by side with his big brother, Sam Winchester didn't give a flying fuck. Perhaps some of the legendary sleeping Indian warrior's blood that reputedly soaked this mountain was seeping through the soil and strengthening the two latter day fighters of evil.

It's wasn't John Lennon singing in his head now, though he wasn't going to let on to Dean – his brother might be in a good mood but that wouldn't stop him seizing any opportunity to tease Sam about his perceived lack of musical taste if he admitted to liking Elton John.

_Shoulder to shoulder, side by side_

_Gone to Shiloh for the Union_

_Time passes slowly, when the flags and bullets start to fly…._

Whatever lay ahead, for the first time in a long time, he thought Dean was right. Maybe for an hour at least, it really was possible to believe there was no Hell below them, and above them was only sky.

* * *

><p><em>AN - I have no idea what is going on with all this schmooptasticness - sure there will be whumping just round the corner, right?_


End file.
